


the space between me and you

by dioscorea



Category: DC Extended Universe, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Forced Cohabitation, M/M, Magical Accidents, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-27 20:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21398512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscorea/pseuds/dioscorea
Summary: Of all the ways GQ imagined getting closer to Croc, stuck-together-via-weird ass-magical-orb wasn't one of them.
Relationships: GQ Edwards/Waylon Jones
Comments: 14
Kudos: 107





	the space between me and you

**Author's Note:**

> WELP here we go again
> 
> a simultaneous thank you and apology to amaronith for their very generous comments that led me to remembering this take on magical bonding that i couldn't get out of my head lol

In hindsight, everything going so well probably should have been the tip off.

It's been an easy day of underwater recon, the kind GQ likes best—no pressing reason behind it, exploration for its own sake. He and Croc are the only ones down here, Flag content to hand them some instruments and let them do whatever they want as long as they get some decent intel for the research team.

So far there’s not much to gather. Whatever this structure was, it’s long abandoned now, despite the energy readings that brought it to Waller’s attention in the first place. GQ can’t imagine it’s too important if they’re handling it and not Curry and his friends, but he knows Waller won’t pass up anything she could keep in her own arsenal. Unfortunately he can’t find anything that might be useful; all the rooms so far have been empty and he can’t pinpoint where the source is. He sweeps the counter around again.

There’s a touch on his shoulder. He spins and follows Croc’s point to a small rectangular seam on the far wall. He aims the counter towards it and there's a small spike in the numbers. They have some time left before Croc needs air so he signals last thing and goes to check it out. Some sort of door? There's no handle, so GQ just—pushes, and would you look at that. Swings wide open.

He doesn't need any equipment to know they hit the jackpot. In the middle of the room is a basketball sized orb, pulsing with a soft white light. There's nothing in the room to give him any context about what it's for, and he thinks for a minute. Flag would probably want to check it out, Waller will _ definitely _ want to check it out, and Croc's almost out of air. He looks around the thin post it's sitting on, but it doesn't seem attached. Might as well take it back with them, save themselves another trip down.

The orb feels solid in his palm, disconcertingly warm even through his diving glove, and it’s trying to escape his grip, but not under its own power—from Croc pulling on it. He grabbed it too, and he was staring intently at GQ, clearly willing him to let it go. GQ pulls a little himself, has one second to consider actually trying tug-o-war, and then—

Without warning GQ is thrown back through the water, grip on the orb gone as his head explodes in pain. His body jackknifes; for the first time in years GQ has no idea which direction is up. He focuses on keeping his jaw shut so he doesn't lose his oxygen and tries not to flail any more than necessary. He's never experienced this level of pain before and he’s been shot; he prides himself on not being a big noise-maker but he has a feeling that's out the window right now. Well, no sense in worrying about it, he thinks, grinding his teeth harder as another burst of pain ricochets down the back of his skull. Plenty of time to be embarrassed later. Like once he’s figured out where the hell the surface is. 

An arm grabs him around his waist—he lashes out mindlessly but the pain subsides enough that he recognizes the breadth of the hand on his hip, the feeling of scales catching against his wetsuit. GQ goes as limp as he can and lets himself be taken wherever Croc is headed—and wow, yeah, GQ was definitely upside down, there.

Croc drags him to the surface. The lightning-sharp jabs behind his eyes and down his neck have receded to steady throbs by the time they come up. GQ spits out his rebreather and gasps a relieved breath. Croc is watching him intently, one hand on his flank to steady him.

"What the fuck," he grits out. His legs feels like they’re on fire. Croc is scratching his neck a lot, which is weird. GQ manages to look around, but the water is clear around them. "What the hell just happened? Did that thing explode?"

Croc lifts his other hand out of the water, and GQ stares at the orb, unlit but completely intact. "What the _ fuck_," he repeats. "If that thing is fine, what the hell happened to our heads?" 

Croc shakes his head. "Your head, bro." GQ can see through the water to where he's now scratching at his leg. Jesus Christ. Of-fucking-course the sad little human gets the short end of the magical orb shit stick. GQ should have seen this coming a mile away. 

"I really hate this job sometimes," GQ sighs. His temple pounds in apparent agreement, and he groans and gives in to the childish urge to let himself slip back underwater. Croc slides an arm around him again before he gets too far and pulls him back up. “Fine,” he grumbles, and they head towards the boat. 

GQ thought the problem was getting knocked around once by an upset orb. 

That was not the problem.

That was actually the smallest part of the problem, GQ discovers from where he’s collapsed on the floor, hands clutching his side where it feels like he’s being stabbed, brain doing its level best to explode out his ears. Flag is yelling something above his head but he can’t parse it, too caught up in trying to breathe. He brought this on himself, he can admit that, though it doesn't make him feel any better. But breathing does get easier, suddenly, and he opens his eyes to find Croc crouched close over him, hands outstretched but not quite touching. “Someone tell me what the hell just happened,” Flag demands. GQ sits up carefully, wary of more unpleasantness. He and Croc stare at each other, and GQ gives a half shrug.

“Angry probably-magic underwater illuminated orb,” he offers. “That's what was giving off those insane energy readings. Figured we’d bring it up to check it out. Didn’t really go as planned.” 

“You don’t say,” Flag deadpans. “What’s that got to do with you?” 

“It fucked me up like this after we touched it, but Croc was basically fine. But now…” he trails off, thinking over the past couple of minutes. He was storing his gear, and Croc had turned to leave. GQ hadn’t thought anything of it until a jolt went through him. He must have made a noise, because Croc turned and came back, and the pain stopped. GQ had looked at him, and at the door, and said _stay here, I'm gonna__ walk down that hall real_ _quick. _“I think—I think we might be, uh. Connected.” 

“And you’re just discovering that now,” Flag says, disbelieving.

They are, though GQ finds himself reluctant to voice why. They've worked together enough since Midway that GQ knows instinctively where Croc will go and what he'll do, and he just orbits around him like a moon. If said moon had no sense of self-preservation and was secretly harboring an intense crush on an especially dangerous killer crocodile. He guiltily looks away from Croc at that. "Croc brought the orb back; the research team is looking into it now," he says, and hopes Flag won't call him on his non sequitur. Flag gives him a pointed look but radios the med team about needing assistance, and GQ tries not to think about what Croc might have answered instead.

Once medical runs out of vials and tests Flag takes them to Croc's cell. GQ is too busy playing a mental loop of the conclusions to pay much attention to anything else. _ Case of different physiologies _ blah blah _ required to keep close physical proximity _ blah blah _ will probably run its course, _ and no matter what order he puts it in it doesn’t bode well for him. 

"I'm sorry about this, but Waller wouldn't agree to anything else, up to and including Medical," Flag says. GQ nods absently, watching Croc scratch at his arm as he heads into his cell. The pounding behind his eyes is starting to pick back up. "Not Medical," GQ repeats slowly. Oh._ Oh_. 

Shit. 

His ribs ache. GQ realizes this is the farthest they've been apart in hours. He jerks a little helplessly towards the door. "This is fine," he manages, and thankfully it only sounds a little strained. 

Flag grimaces. "You picked a hell of a teammate to get stuck to," he mutters. GQ very carefully does not react to that. "Docs will be by tomorrow." GQ intends to respond but a particularly sharp spike down his spine has him lunging through the door instead. He pulls up hard to avoid slamming into Croc, who looks like he was on his way back towards GQ. Croc stops mid-neck scratch and watches him cautiously. 

"Hey," he says, and cringes. Great start. "Looks like we're roommates until this gets straightened out." He looks over the cell; a couch near the cell bars facing the wide murky pool, a shelf cut into the wall behind it, and of course the huge flat screen up by the ceiling. "You can just ignore me, if you want. I'll stay out of your way." Exhaustion hits him like a brick and he wants to sit down. He slumps against the bars instead, presses the heel of his palms against his eyes. It throbs, and he does it a couple more times, enjoying the novelty of having a say when the feeling stops. 

"You look like shit," Croc says from behind his hands. GQ snorts. 

"I feel like shit, so that tracks. Trust me when I say I'd prefer your allergy symptoms to my—" he waves an arm. "Whatever the fuck this is." He slumps down more.

Croc blinks, horizontal lids flashing. His eyes are glowing slightly in the dimness, two spots of golden red light watching him. GQ realizes he's staring and turns his gaze away. "Sit down before you fall over," Croc warns. And yeah, that's probably smart. GQ starts slowly sliding down the bars. "On the couch, dumbass." 

GQ stops mid-squat. "But—" He looks around helplessly. This is it, all Croc has; he feels… awkward. Guilty. GQ's quarters back on base aren't anything to write home about either, but not because that's the only way they're allowed to be. He doesn't know how much of that shows on his face but Croc softens slightly. "It's just a couch," he says, "and if you hit the floor I'm not helping you get there." GQ huffs a laugh, and pries himself away from the wall. 

"Don't front like you wouldn’t carry me if I asked," he scoffs. Croc shifts slightly, looking uncomfortable for a moment so brief GQ isn't sure he didn't imagine it. It's gone as fast as it appeared as he sprawls on the couch. GQ shrugs it off, shuffling past Croc and flopping down in the leftover space on his other side. "What shall we do on this fine evening? Do you think they'd let us order a pizza?" In an instant, Croc is looming over him. GQ freezes, brain blanking as his sight narrows down to the broad, _ broad _ shoulder blocking his vision and the line of scales travelling down it. Croc sits back and the television flips on. Right. The remote. GQ swallows and tries to find his equilibrium again. Flag was right in his assumption that this wouldn't be great for GQ—just completely off the mark for _ why_. 

He has a feeling that this is not going to be the last time he wishes that wasn't the case. 

When GQ opens his eyes it's to a view of threadbare beige tweed and the sharp panic of having absolutely no idea where he is. He very carefully doesn't move, trying to get a feel for the room. He's not restrained, just prone, and feels vaguely damp? No falling moisture, which means some sort of water source— 

The cell. He sighs through his nose, and turns over on the couch. Croc is sitting on the floor a couple feet away, back to GQ while he stares out the bars at the empty hallway. He glances back at the sound of movement. He seems—not tense, really, but primed. Ready to move. GQ checks the hallway again but still can't see anyone. He's a light sleeper, but he definitely was totally out the whole night; he can't imagine what happened. "Did the docs come through?" Croc shakes his head. GQ stretches his arms above his head. "Then what's got you all—" GQ gestures vaguely in his direction with his arms still raised. 

"You slept for awhile," Croc says, stilted.

"Oh. Sorry? Being in pain all day is fucking exhausting." His shoulder twinges reproachfully. He hisses a breath and starts to gingerly roll it. "I don't know how you sleep on this couch, dude. This is not good for anything with a skeletal system." His arms fall to his sides with a slap. "Oh shit, did you sleep any? I _ am _ sorry, man, I wasn’t thinking."

Croc is looking at him strangely. "I'm fine."

"First you're stuck with me, then I come in and take over your couch—"

"GQ," Croc cuts in. "It's fine."

But it's not, not really. Croc has to be chafing at the bit to get away from him already, to have his cell back to himself. GQ knows he likes his solitude, doesn't mind the space people leave around him. GQ assumed he did, at first, seeing how everyone reacted to him before Midway, and after that circus he decided that wasn't going to be him, not after Croc became GQ's saving grace. He'll follow Croc around all day if he can get away with it, happy to ramble about anything while Croc silently looms, baring his teeth at anyone else who tries to get close. GQ keeps the rush he feels every time it happens tamped down hard. Croc probably just has a one-person limit, and if that's the case GQ knows who he wants that person to be. He loathes the idea that by the time this is over Croc will be tired of him, is furious that a dumb wet orb has jeopardized that.

Before he can say anything Croc stands and moves to stand in front of the couch. The sound of footsteps reaches the cell, and GQ gets up, takes a moment to steady himself behind Croc's wide, solid back. The medical team will fix this, and he'll be fine. It'll be fine. Much more can't possibly go wrong.

GQ stares balefully at the doc. "What do you mean, _ on leave_?"

The doc shuffles his feet, looking uncomfortable. "We just don't think that you and Killer—uh, Agent Jones should be in situations where he, or, you both—"

"We don't want you out where your symptoms can flare up," Flag cuts in mercifully. 

"Then what's the plan for fixing it?" 

Flag and the doc exchange a look. “Stay here and wait it out,” Flag says. “They’re working on reversing it with the object itself, but it should still stop on it’s own.” No. No way. This is unbelievable.

"What the hell is Waller going to do,” GQ asks, offended. “Just ignore any water missions that come up?" 

The corner of Flag's mouth tilts. "I love all my SEAL children equally," he says benevolently. "Figure I'll give the other teams some time to shine."

GQ bristles. "You can't just slap another team in, they don't have the history with the Squad we do—"

"The other teams," Flag snaps, all amusement gone, "are capable of walking in opposite directions without having a goddamn meltdown. You could barely stand to be three feet away from each other last night; you telling me you're fit for fieldwork?"

GQ bites back a comment about how none of that mattered when it came to Moone. This isn't Flag's fault, and GQ knows he's less helpful to Waller in the long run. But it's not just him getting benched, here. He looks behind him at Croc. He's been quiet the entire time the medical team has been in here, and now he's at GQ's back, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking down at him with a steady gaze. GQ thinks, and takes a step towards Flag. "Alright, boss. But. What if we are." 

Flag stares at him in disbelief before looking past his shoulder at Croc. GQ doesn't know what he sees but his gaze turns contemplative. Finally he shrugs. "Prove it. Then we'll see." 

He starts herding the medical team out of the cell. GQ takes a deep breath and turns to Croc. "Shall we?" 

They both start at the cell door, and Croc's been moving a step at a time towards the other end. GQ didn't want to admit it but Flag was right; after Croc was out of arms reach things got much more difficult. Croc's scratching repetitively at the back of his neck and GQ's headache has returned full force. He eases a little despite himself after a while; the pain never lessens but it does seem to have a holding pattern. GQ breathes through it and signals when it levels out. Croc never tells him to hurry up, doesn't so much as shift his weight before he gets a sign from GQ. 

With a final step Croc makes it to the other wall. GQ waits, but nothing gets worse. 

"That's…not bad," he says, surprised. His head is throbbing, his ribs are aching and his arms and legs have pins and needles, but he's still standing, can still think clearly. "You?" 

Croc has been alternating between digging one of his claws into his elbow ditch and under his jaw for the last three feet, but he just shrugs. "Been worse," he rumbles. That's—actually a good point. Yesterday was miserable, and GQ doesn't know what the difference is. There's about fifteen feet between them right now, but unless Croc can go through the wall, there's nowhere else for him to go. 

Or rather—nowhere horizontally. 

GQ eyes the pool. "How deep is that?" 

Croc abruptly stops scratching. "Not sure that's a good idea." 

"It's been fine so far," GQ argues. Croc tilts his head. "It's been not terrible," GQ capitulates, "and I need to know the exact line where it gets terrible. You heard Flag and the docs, we're stuck here. I won't—I can't—" he cuts himself off sharply. "You can't honestly tell me you want to wait this out in here," he says quietly. Croc doesn't reply, and GQ looks at the floor. He knew the answer before he asked, but can’t pretend it doesn’t still sting. 

"It's deep," Croc eventually says. He walks over to the stairs. GQ's eyebrows raise. "Not doing it all at once, bro," Croc says. GQ holds up his hands placatingly. 

"Fine with me. You'll keep track of how far down you are?" He gets a scathing look at that. Fair enough. "Okay. I'll slap the water before it gets too bad. Otherwise the show is yours."

Croc walks backwards down the steps, watching GQ carefully. The pain ramps up quickly, but doesn't come close to where it was a couple minutes ago. He tries to smile reassuringly. Croc pauses, but it seems to work, and with barely a ripple he's underwater. 

And GQ waits. 

It moves through him slowly like a wave, rolling down from his head like he’s come to expect. He catalogues every sensation as it comes, tries to map out what already feels familiar and what’s new. He kind of wishes the medical team brought some painkillers for him to keep on hand. Then again, this is a whole new level of stupidity, even for him, so he’s not surprised no one thought to have any. 

A particularly sharp spike in his eye makes him hiss a breath, hand covering it protectively automatically. At least fifteen feet, then. He starts to move closer to the edge to get ready to signal Croc when his legs suddenly give out and he falls, knees hitting the grate hard. His vision whites out in overload, and when he comes back to himself he’s gasping for air, his whole body feeling like it’s being ripped apart. “Croc,” he chokes out, but it’s quiet, too quiet to have a chance of making it through the water. “Oh, jesus _ fuck_, _ Croc_,” he manages, louder, and reaches as far as he can, catches the surface of the water with his fingers. Nothing happens for a long moment and GQ wildly thinks about how pissed Flag is going to be when the surface breaks and Croc lunges up over the edge in a rush of falling water. In an instant he’s leaning over GQ, hands grabbing his shoulders and moving him upright. GQ doesn't even think—just slings his arms around Croc’s neck and holds on as tight as he can. 

"Sorry, I'm sorry, please—just for a minute, god, sorry," he gasps, voice almost unrecognizable even to himself. Croc freezes for a moment, but carefully gathers him close against his chest, and GQ gives in and presses his forehead into the hollow of Croc’s neck. “This fucking sucks,” he grates out, lips brushing scales. The pain starts receding, but slower than before, and GQ breathes deep and tries to will it away faster. 

He doesn’t know how long they sit there, soaking wet and wrapped around each other on the floor. He feels completely drained when it’s over, like he could sleep for a week. He closes his eyes. “Alright,” he says instead. “Let’s try again.”

A week passes. 

Flag's willing enough to take them at their word that they figured some shit out, but makes them show him in person through various on-base exercises. GQ pushes back against his exhaustion while they test and test and test, and finally Flag's confident enough in the parameters they've discovered to go to Waller. 

That night GQ falls face first into the couch with a groan. He feels like he’s gone ten rounds with a meat grinder. “Christ, who’s stupid idea was this,” he groans. His legs cramp and he stifles a whine in the cushion. There's a low answering grumble and with a monumental effort he rolls his head to the side. Croc is settling down on the floor in front of him, taking his now-familiar position between GQ and the cell door. But tonight he's leaning back against the front of the couch, and GQ worries about how tired he must be if he's allowing himself to do that. "Yeah, yeah. Don’t rub it in. Good idea at the time." He watches with heavy-lidded eyes as Croc tries to scratch a spot between his shoulder blades. A late developing issue they've been working through were aftershocks after long days, and to GQ's unvoiced amusement, it seems to plague Croc more than him. He thoughtlessly drags a hand up and presses his fingers below Croc’s reach. Croc tenses beneath his fingertips. “Lower?” he asks, voice rough as gravel. Croc drops his arm. GQ hums in acknowledgement and digs his nails in a bit. The scales here are rough, catching slightly on his calluses. They’re cool to the touch. GQ wonders drowsily how hot his skin feels to Croc. He realizes he’s just tracing the seam between the rows and refocuses. God he’s tired. “Should be quiet until tomorrow,” he murmurs, and lets his hand slide down until it’s resting flat against Croc’s spine. “But wake me up if anything happens in the meantime.” Croc remains silent, but he doesn’t move, and GQ presses his palm against him gently before he falls asleep.

There's a shit-eating grin on his face as he pulls himself over the side of the boat. He thumps his fist against Croc’s bicep before he’s even done sloughing off water. “That’s what I’m talking about, man!” Croc side-eyes him. “Beautiful day, beautiful water, beautiful mission,” he crows, and holds his fist out. Croc rolls his eyes, but bumps him back.

“You’re just happy your plan worked,” he says. 

GQ doesn’t look up from where he’s securing his O2 tank. “You’re goddamn right I am. Getting out here is glorious; you can’t pretend otherwise. I was starting to worry I’d never get free,” he smiles over at him, but Croc is staring down at the water. “Hey,” GQ says. “You good?” Croc looks back over at him, but his face is shuttered, any lightheartedness gone. 

“Yep,” he says. GQ blinks. Before he can reply Flag comes on deck for the after action report, and GQ can only watch, helpless, as Croc retreats within himself until it no longer matters that GQ is right next to him. He's gone.

He's awake long before Flag stops by the next morning. He slept fitfully, felt unmoored every time he woke. Croc spoke even less than usual after getting back; turned on the television and watched everything that came on BET without comment. They still move as fluidly around each other as ever, a dance long memorized, but GQ can't help but notice that Croc has been slowly building more space in between them every time one of them moves. There's no reason for them to stay close, at this point, but GQ—well, GQ enjoyed it. He recognizes now how selfish he's been, how deluded; he knew from the very beginning how much this would bother Croc but somewhere along the line he let himself forget. Like Croc would ever want someone around like that. 

Want him around like that. 

He doesn't bother pretending he doesn't immediately hear Flag coming, leaves Croc by the couch and goes to the cell door. Flag's looking as pleased as he ever does, which must mean-

"They figured it out. You ready?"

GQ ignores the sense of loss those words bring. "When can we leave?"

  
  
Reversing everything is laughably easy, when it comes down to it. Swim the orb back down, place both their hands on it, stick it back on its stick, let go. Magic is stupid and GQ will never think otherwise. 

It goes perfectly, because of course it does. GQ doesn't know what he was expecting; even before this mess he and Croc worked well together. Setting something down is the easiest task they'll ever have. He shouldn't complain.

He trails after Croc on the way back to the surface, watches the effortless way he moves through the water. When he gets topside Croc is already out, and reaches down to offer him a hand up. To anyone else it would look friendlier than usual, but GQ saw the deliberation in it, and briefly but fiercely resents it. But if this is all he's offered, he'll take it, and he quietly resents that, too. 

The cell is the first stop once they're back, and Croc heads in, ignoring the nervous guards as usual. 

"GQ," Flag says, and he turns around to find Flag looking at him with amusement from the hallway. What—oh. He looks around the cell a little wildly. "Right," he says, "sorry." He turns to Croc. "Sorry," he repeats, softer, and walks out without looking back. 

Another day, another baddie down. GQ has half an ear on Flag while they all traipse through the halls. He's tired; even having a bed hasn't helped him get any rest. He watches Croc head into his cell, and he’s following him in before he’s fully conscious of his feet moving. He waves off the protesting noise a guard makes. He's going to get shit for this later from Flag, but the cell door starts rattling shut and he has more pressing problems to worry about. Mostly figuring out what the hell he's doing.

Croc is looking at him with almost the exact expression he did the first time. GQ would laugh if any of this still felt funny. He tries to think of something to say, but can't come up with anything. "I can't sleep," he mutters. Croc blinks, then shrugs. 

"Try laying down," he says. 

"I did," GQ replies. "On an actual bed. There was a mattress. It's temp quarters, so not the best mattress, but a real one nonetheless." He glances at the couch and its worn down cushions. "It had pillows. Multiple pillows! All dry, too, which was novel." Croc has tensed, but GQ ignores it. "And I don't need to rearrange my skeleton into its actual shape every time I get up, it's astounding."

"Good for you," Croc says, tone clearly aiming for mild, and suddenly GQ is furious, launching off the bars and stalking towards him.

"It is! It really is, except for the fact that I can't fucking _ sleep _ unless it's apparently on your awful goddamn _ couch!_" 

Croc explodes into motion, rounding on GQ. "You got what you asked for," he rumbles, and GQ almost trips over his own feet as he’s pushed back towards the wall. 

"What _ I _asked for—"

"Couldn't handle being in here," GQ’s back hits the door but Croc keeps coming. "Hated the idea. Had to get away from me and the cell no matter what." He pins GQ against the bars by his hip and chest, hand high enough that the tip of his claws press into GQ's throat. "I even went along with it. Don't need anyone around who doesn’t want to be." GQ's hands scrabble against Croc's shoulders but there's no chance he'll move him, not if Croc doesn't want to be moved. "You can't sleep? Okay," he growls, pressing in close. "You said you wanted to leave. You got to leave." 

"I never said that," he snaps. "You tell me when—" he cuts himself off, understanding dawning. "The mission last week. Up on the boat. That's what you’re talking about, isn't it." Croc stays silent. GQ searches his face, and the fight drains right out of him.

"That wasn't what that was,” he says, quietly, carefully. “Of course I wanted to get out; I wanted to do my goddamn job. And if we’re working, then you’re not forced to be close to me. You’d have your space back.” Croc's let up slightly. GQ arches a little despite himself, and looks away, focuses on the line of Croc's throat. “I would have stood in the corner the entire time if you wanted, but you didn't. You let me in, and gave me your couch and got a weird hangup about staying near me when I sleep and went along with my insanely stupid experiments and—” he pauses, swallowing. “I_ liked _ it. I wanted it. But I couldn't believe that you would, too." He risks a glance up at Croc's face. He looks contemplative, head tilted down while he listens. He's not pinning GQ down at all, now, has shifted his hand up to the join of his neck and shoulder, thumb resting along his collarbone. His fingers have curled around his hip, and GQ takes a chance, slides his own hand up Croc's neck, pushes up on his toes to press his forehead against Croc's. And Croc—Croc _ lets _ him.

"I was trying to make this easier for _ you_, moron," he says. Croc growls, low in his throat, and GQ laughs and kisses him. 

He breaks away eventually, breathing hard. Croc's pinned him back against the bars again, and while GQ vastly prefers this reason why, he still kind of wants to take a break from body aches. He thunks his head down on Croc's shoulder. "I really am tired," he murmurs. 

A thumb sweeps over the jut of his hip before Croc's hand slowly trails down to grip his thigh. GQ shivers. "Hey. Remember that time you claimed you wouldn't—"

He gives a yelp as he's suddenly lifted off the floor, and laughs all the way to the couch.


End file.
